Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1887-12-29
ALLAN QCARTERNAlN.
Or
A BROWNING CITY

your pity and hate We for it: that cast off
your forgiveness as though IL were ser
cents sting, and that standing here, be-
trayed, deserted, insulted, and alone, yet
triumph over we, mock We, ana DEFY We,
one aud all. and thus | answer ye;" and
then of a sudden, before anybody guessed
what she intended to do she drove the lit
tie silver spear she carried III her hand into
her side with such a strong and steady aim
that the keen point projected through her
back, and she fell prone upon the pave
ment.
Nyleptha shreked. and poor Good almost
tainted at the sight, while the rest of us
rushed towards her. But SOraiS of the
Night raised herself upon her hand, and
for a moment fixed her glorious eyes in
tently on Curtis face. as though there
were some message in the glance, then
dropped her mead and sighed, and with a
sob her dark yet splendid spirit passed.
Well, they gave her q royal funeral, and
there was an end Of her:
It was a month after the last act of the
Sorais' tragedy that there was great cere-
mOny in the Flower Temple, and Curtis
was formally declared King-consort Of ZJl-
Fendis. | was too i'll to go myself; and,
indeed, hate all that sort of thing, with
the crowds and the trumpet-bloWing and
banner waving; but Good who was there
| Gin his full-dresS unif0rm), came back much
| impressed, and told me that Nyleptha had
| looked lovely, and Curtis had borne him
self in a right royal fashion, and had been
received with acclamationS that left no
| doubt as to his popularity. Also he told
| me that when the horse Daylight was led
| along in the procession, the popuiace had
| shouted "MdcunlGzdIIn! Mdcl1ndzOhf!'
| till they were hOarSa, and would only be
| appeased when he, Good, rose in his chariot
| and told them / was too i'll to be present.
Afterward, too, Sir Henry, or rather the
| King, came to see me, looking very tired,
| and yoWing that he had never been SO bored
| in his life; but dare say that that was a
| Slight eXa9geratiOn. It is not in human
| nature that a man should be altogether
| bored on such an extraordinary occasion;
| and, indeed, as [ pointed out to him, it was
| q marvellous thing that a man, who but
| little more than one short year before had
| entered q great country as an unknown
wanderer, should to-day be married to its
| beautiful and beloved Queen, and lifted,
amidst public rejoicing, to its throne; and
| | even went the length to eXhort him in
| the future not to be carried away by the
| pride and pOmp Of absolute power, but al
| ways to strive to remember that he was
| first q Christian gentleman, and next q
public servant, called by Providence to a
| great and almost unprecedented trust.
| These remarks, which he might fairly have
| resented, he was 50 good as to receive with
| patience, and even to thank me for making
| them.
1t was Immediately after this ceremony
| that [ caused myself to be moved to the
| house where [ an now writing. 1t is a
| very pleasant c0untry-Seat, situated about
| two miles from the browning City, onto
| which it looks That was five months ago,
| during the whole of which time | have,
| being confined to kind of couch, employ
! ed my leisure in compiling this history OF
| our wanderings from my journal and our
| joint memories. 1t is probable that it will
never be read, but it does not much matter
Rnth ns Ty or of. OF lT1Vr fl IN n
served to while away many hours of suf-
| fering, for have suffered deal of pain
| lately. Thank God, however, there will
not be much more of it.
IL is week since [ wrote the above, and
| now take up my pen for the last time, for
| [ know that the end is at hand. My brain
| is still clear and [ can manage to write,
| though with difficulty. The pain in my
| lung which has been very bad during the
last week has suddenly quite left me, and
| been succeeded by feeling of numbness
| of which | cannot mistake the meaning.
| And just as the pain has gone, SO with it
| all fear of that end has departed, and feel
| only as though [ were going to sink into
| the arms of an unutterable rest Happily,
| contentedly, and with the same sense of
| security with which an infant lays itself to
| sleep in its mothers arms, do / lay myself
| down in the arms of the Angel Death. All
| the tremors, all the Notwithstanding fears
| which have haunted me through a life that
| seems long as [ look back upon it, have
left me now; the storms have passed, and
| the Star of our Eternal Hope shines clear
/ and steady on the horizon that seems so
far from man, and yet is so very near to
| me tonight.
And 50 this is the end of it-a brief space
| of troubling, - few restless, fevered, an
| guished years, and then the arms of that
| great Angel Death. Many times have
| been near to them, many and many a COM
| rade have they embraced even at my side,
| and now it is my turn at last, and it is
| we'll. Twenty-fOur hours more and the
| world will be gone from me, and with 1t
| all its hopes and all its fears. The air will
| close in over the space that my form filed
| and my place know me no more; for the
dull breath of the worlds forgetfulness
1 will first dim the brightness of my mem
/ DRY, and then blot it out forever, and of a
| truth I shall be dead. So is it with us all.
| How many millions have lain as lie and
| thought these thoughts and been forgot
| ten!-thouSands upon thousands of wears
| ago they thought them, those dying men
| OF the dim past; and thousands upon thous-
| andS of years hence will their descendants
| think them and be in their turn forgotten.
| LAS the breath of the oxen in winter, as
| the quick star that runs along the sky, as
| a little shadow that loses itself at sunset"
as l once heard a Zulu called Ignosi put it,
such is the order OF our life, the order that
| paSSeth away.
Well, it is not good world-nobodyc can
| say that it is, save those who wilfully blind
| themselves to facts. How can world be
| good in which money is the moving power,
| and self-iuterest the guiding star? The
wonder is not, that it is so bad, but that
| there should be any good left in it.
Still, now that my life is over, | am glad
| to have lived, glad to have known the dear
| breath of woman's love, and that true
| friendship that can even surpass the love
of woman, glad to have heard the laughter
| of little children, to have seen the sun and
| the moon and the stars, to have felt the
| kiss OF the salt sea on my face, and watched
| the wild game trek down to the water in
| the moonlight. But l should not wish to
| live againl
Everything is changing to me. The
| darkness draws near and the light departs.
| And yet it seems to me that through that
| darkness | can already see the shining
| welcome of many a long-lost face. Harry
| is there, and others: one above all, to my
| mind the sweetest and most perfect woman
| that ever gladdened this grey earth. Bat
| of her have already written elsewhere,
and at length, so why speak of her now?
| Why speak Of her after this long silence,
| now that she is again so near to me?
! The sinking sun is turning the golden